Classic poem of the day
Apart, thank Heaven, from all to do
To keep alive the long day through;
To imagine; think; watch; listen to;
There still remains—the heart to bless,
Exquisite pregnant Idleness.
Why, we might let all else go by
To seek its Essence till we die …
Hark, now! that Owl, a-snoring in his tree,
Till it grow dark enough for him to see.
Member poem of the day
rather yours truly doth thrive
on keeping the ethos, mythos,
and pathos of Pigpen alive
subjected to eternal
abomination, brutalization,
condemnation, damnation,
emasculation, humiliation, ostracization,
who one day envisions himself
as a decrepit solitudinarian
an aging long haired baby boomer,
(I seriously contemplate donating
about a dozen inches of straggly hair
to locks of love, hoping
a stylist makes house calls -
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